Re: [messengers] A Man Called Horse

Date: 8 Oct 2010 08:03:19 +0200
From: Kirk Dungan <happycourier13@xxxxxxxxx>

Shit baby, sorry someone pissed on your Cheerios's.

----- Original Message ----
From: Willy Wonker <fetologist@xxxxxxxxx>
To: Messenger list <messengers@xxxxxxxxx>; Joe Hendry <messvilleto@xxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Thu, October 7, 2010 3:34:57 PM
Subject: Re: [messengers] A Man Called Horse

'street-hip road warrior'  This shit is getting better and better.
Funny i thought Craig from Seattle was the worlds fastest.
Oh and when did cheating become 'a technicality'?
Fuck it, who cares.  Delivering an envelope from a to b should not be glorified 
like this.
--- On Thu, 7/10/10, Joe Hendry <messvilleto@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:

From: Joe Hendry <messvilleto@xxxxxxxxx>
Subject: [messengers] A Man Called Horse
To: "Messenger list" <messengers@xxxxxxxxx>
Received: Thursday, 7 October, 2010, 10:56 PM

A Man Called Horse 
New York’s bike messengers live life at warp speed. And one man is speediest of 
all: Austin Horse. 

The Red Bulletin, September 30, 2010 
“When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human 
race.”  - HG Wells 

He arrives like a lightning bolt. Bam! He’s right beside me. Note to self: 
better reset my notions of ‘now’, ‘in a minute’ and ‘pretty fast’. 

Austin Horse – ‘the world’s fastest bike courier’ – does time differently from 
you and me. His sense of how long things take is compressed, heightened, 
intensified. He lives life on permanent fast-forward. Two, maybe three, minutes 
ago we had spoken to fix a meeting point. “I’ll be with you real soon,” he 
closed, from an unspecified nearby New York spot where he’d just completed his 
latest delivery. Enough time, I figure, to buy and drink a coffee. 

Buy, yes; drink, no. By the time I’d purchased said beverage and walked outside 
NYC’s Grand Central Station, to meet beneath the Park Avenue overpass, Austin 
has arrived, skidding to a perfectly positioned halt a couple of feet from my 
feet. He hops off gracefully, unclipping his clip-in shoes and trotting the last 
couple of steps towards me in a single fluid movement. 

He looks the part in such an unshowily cool way it’s hard to stifle a smile: a 
workhorse street-beaten fixed-gear bike; courier trousers (‘pants’), that look 
like regular jeans, but with threads of stretchy Lycra interlaced and a 
reflective strip inside the turn-up; a discreet black cycling cap and, of 
course, a massive bag, containing who knows what, strapped to his shoulders. The 
kit’s all there and it’s all pukka stuff – but if you didn’t know what you were 
looking for, you’d miss it. 

He’s no Lycra-Nazi ‘roadie’, but a street-hip road warrior, prepared for pretty 
much anything this endlessly exciting metropolis can throw at him. In 
square-rimmed black Ray-Bans, there’s a whiff of Clark Kent to his style and 
he’s a twist of nervy energy, with a quick smile, handshake and a glint in the 
eye that’s always saying, “C’mon, let’s go.” 

Full article at (pg 52) 


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